


Broken

by JenNova



Series: Broken Boys [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Broken Boys, Episode Tag, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Spoilers: 2x12 - Master Plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:12:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenNova/pseuds/JenNova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's been sitting in Stiles' room for an hour, now, waiting for Stiles to get back from wherever he's been. He doesn't really know why he's here just that it's where he needed to be. Somewhere that Peter wasn't, he thinks, and somewhere he's felt – safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Quick and dirty coda for Master Plan. Not particularly happy but maybe a bit hopeful?

“Oh, come on, I just want to go to sleep,” Stiles says when he sees Derek. He slumps onto his bed, doesn't bother to wave his arms around or overreact, and Derek doesn't say anything.

He's been sitting in Stiles' room for an hour, now, waiting for Stiles to get back from wherever he's been. He doesn't really know why he's here just that it's where he needed to be. Somewhere that Peter wasn't, he thinks, and somewhere he's felt – safe.

What is his life right now if a sixteen year-old's bedroom is where he feels safe?

“No, don't say anything,” Stiles adds when Derek doesn't speak. “Just sit there. Brooding. Like you're the only one with problems.”

Derek remembers the storm of emotion that had swamped Stiles two nights ago. He wasn't paying attention at the time but the strength of it had been enough to impress itself on his skin. Peter had given him _looks_ afterwards, like he found it funny that Derek was covered in someone else's feelings, and Derek had done his best to ignore him. He still doesn't know what the hell to do about Peter.

He doesn't know what to do about _anything_.

“You'll get over her,” Derek says, because he still can't admit he doesn't know what he's doing. It's the worst possible thing he could've said because Stiles springs into action, looming over Derek in a reversal he should probably find funny.

“Because you're the king of getting over things,” Stiles says and his words should be frenzied and dramatic but instead they are cool and calm, gutting. “I can really learn a good lesson from you on that. Just like all those lessons you taught your betas – the ones that ran away from you as soon as things got hard.”

Derek flinches because it's the truth, because he can feel the tense coil of anger wrapped around Stiles, and because he thinks this is maybe why he came here.

“You're a fuck up,” Stiles says. The words come out in a bitter sigh, ghosting across Derek's face, and Derek keeps his eyes on Stiles' jaw refusing to be drawn in. “I don't know why I ever thought you'd be better at this than us.”

Derek looks up then; sees Stiles with his eyes tightly closed, sees the ugly bruises mottling his face, the grazes where the skin was broken. Scott had at least deigned to tell Derek this, even as he pushed Derek away again, that Gerard Argent had beaten Stiles as a message to him. Derek thinks if Gerard had had even an inkling of the confused well of emotion Stiles provokes in him that Stiles would've been in hospital by now.

“It's my fault,” Derek says, words he's lived his life by. They're all he has to offer. Stiles grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him, like he's forgotten what Derek is.

“Oh my God, Derek,” he exhales, catching Derek's eyes and holding them. “Stop being such a fucking martyr. _This_ is why Peter's going to run circles around you.”

Derek isn't a – he doesn't behave like – he's spent six years wearing guilt and blame like a shroud, a shroud of ashes, until they were they only thing he could taste and breathe. He honestly doesn't know how to let that go or even if he should – he doesn't know who he'd be without it.

It's terrifying and he doesn't have time for fear.

“I need your help,” he says because he can't have Scott, and Isaac staying with him is a tenuous prospect at best. Stiles makes a scoffing noise.

“And I need to sleep off the persistent headache I've had since Gerard Argent used me like a punching bag,” Stiles says, leaning back and staring down at Derek. “Why are you here, Derek?”

The tone is defeated and Derek hates that in Stiles – it's not the Stiles he's come to expect, it's not the Stiles part of him has come to crave. He leans back in the chair so he can stare at Stiles more evenly.

“I _want_ your help,” Derek says, letting all of his honesty out in one go. Stiles steps back as if Derek has punched him. Obviously that was the right thing to say.

There's a first time for everything.

“Well, shit,” Stiles says, stepping back further. “Now I know it's bad.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, leaning forwards to rest his elbows on his knees, dropping his eyes from Stiles' face to his feet. “Someone has to be around to stop Peter from - I'm not stupid but Peter has a way of talking that gets inside my head. I can't have him – I can't trust him – but I can't just kill him again. He knows too much.”

Stiles is silent for a long time and Derek can feel Stiles watching him, considering him. He feels like he's being weighed and measured and there's no way at all for him not to be found wanting. He wants to flee, from this one safe haven, before Stiles' judgement can be handed down.

“Little lost wolf,” Stiles says, sinking to his knees in front of Derek. Stiles isn't that much shorter than him, he forgets sometimes, and Stiles' eyes are suddenly looking into Derek's again. Stiles wraps long fingers around Derek's elbows and leans forward, enticing Derek forward, eventually pressing their foreheads together.

“You're still alone, really, aren't you,” Stiles says, not a hint of question in the tone. “Your pack's a mess and your ex-dead uncle is a psychopath and Scott's the most stubborn guy I know. Jackson probably doesn't give a shit about you. It's just you.”

“You're the only one I have left,” Derek says because he knows that this Stiles, the Stiles that hides behind mania and humour, wouldn't have hesitated to throw him out if that wasn't true. This is Stiles at his purest – broken, flawed and beautiful.

“But you don't trust me, remember?” Stiles asks with half a broken laugh.

“You're the only one who's come back,” Derek says, pressing claws into his palms. “You're the _only_ one I trust.”

“That's kinda a big deal,” Stiles says and his hands slide up Derek's arms until they resting either side of his neck.

Derek knows how to prove it like he knows how to breathe, like he knows how to change, like he knows his bones. He pulls his head back and tilts it, holding Stiles' eyes as he exposes his neck. Stiles licks his lips subconsciously, his thumbs coming up automatically to trail down Derek's stubble until they're sitting on his clavicles. Derek makes a soft noise, a question, and Stiles nods, understanding.

“You look as tired as a feel,” Stiles says, pushing his hands into Derek's hair and scraping his fingers over Derek's scalp. Derek barely stops the deep rumble of pleasure from escaping his chest. He hasn't slept since they caught wind of the alpha pack.

“You look -” Derek stops himself and raises a hand, ghosting his fingers as lightly as possible over Stiles' collection of bruises.

“Terrible, I know, I can barely look myself in the face,” Stiles says, moving his head away from Derek's touch. There's a wealth of bitterness in the tone and Derek wonders if Stiles would tell him everything that happened that night if he asked. He thinks maybe he would – but he's scared to ask, of what it might make him feel.

“Brave, actually,” Derek says, not knowing where it came from but knowing that it's true. This kid, this not-so-scrawny _human_ kid who got the shit kicked out of him as a threat, got up off his ass and drove his Jeep into a monster. That's brave or stupid. Or maybe both.

It's the right thing to say, again, which must be a record for Derek. Stiles lets out a breath and pulls Derek forward so he can rest his forehead against Derek's shoulder. Derek rubs a hand over his back and breathes in, picking through the layers of emotion until he can get to the smell of Stiles underneath.

“You can stay for a while if you want,” Stiles says, mumbling against Derek's shoulder. “Dad's not going to be home for hours.”

Derek should say no but he can't – he's exhausted and still frightened and his whole body is like a livewire just waiting for the wrong person to brush up against it. He needs this, this impossible boy, and he can't have him the way he wants so he'll take _anything_ Stiles can give him.

Derek nods, not trusting himself to vocalise what he's feeling, and Stiles pulls back, stands up and pulls him up too. He pushes Derek onto the bed and looks pointedly at Derek's shoes before turning to change out of his clothes. Derek's toeing off his shoes when Stiles drags his shirt over his head and his breath catches at the bruising splayed angrily over Stiles' skin. He wants to cover and protect Stiles and he has to fight it down.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, pulling a pyjama top on. “The human got his ass kicked for the werewolves and gets none of the benefits of the healing factor. Sucks to be Stiles.”

Derek has time to shrug his jacket off and throw it onto the floor before Stiles is pushing at him to lie down and move back and Derek lets him. He lets Stiles push him around until he's happy and doesn't argue when Stiles curls around him, hand twisting into his shirt.

“Don't get any ideas,” Stiles says, voice already hazy with sleep. “I'm just a cuddler. At least – I think I will be when I get a chance.”

Derek wants to point out that _this_ is a chance but Stiles' breath is already evening out. Derek matches his breathing to Stiles', lets it lull him towards sleep. He knows that in a few days Stiles will bounce back into his usual disguise, bury himself under a useless crush and an unassuming high school career, but for now Derek has him, and the idea of him, curled up against him. It feels right in a way it shouldn't but Derek can't find it in himself to care. In a few years he hopes this Stiles can be his and he presses a kiss to the top of Stiles' head to tell him so.


End file.
